Sea of Sensation: a collection
by dimrooms
Summary: "How much, then, does your humanity suffer? Without something so pure in it to dispel every pain, every ounce of sadness that can plague the mind? Kanda's heart, Allen thinks, must be a complete, inky black." A collection of oneshots and drabbles. Yullen.
1. Zone

The hours afterward are lost thoughtless and wasted. Time is held as bated breath as if to suspend boneless thought.

Drowned in sensation - Kanda's hands, flat and warm against his thighs, the weight of his cobalt blue eyes as they traced every sharp angle of bone, every curve of lean muscle, took in every shade of pink the heat of their bodies flushed him with, the heat of his tongue as it traced a ragged line beneath his ear, and again as it slid against his own.

Allen lies loose limbed and numb to all but the last traces of pleasure as it runs through his body in a low, thrilling thrum.

Sleep tugs faithfully at his eyes, but the throb and direction of his blood still offer a greater calling, and Allen is tempted to undress himself again and pull at his cock, this time with only the weight of the cool air in his room on him, though it isn't hard to reimagine what came before.

* * *

Long time no see! This is my attempt at writing everyday, and posting everyday. It's short... but it's something! Expect things like this, and longer, cross posted here, on tumblr, and Ao3 (links are in my bio) in this collection. I also take requests. Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Forfeited Humanity

"I'm getting so sick of the way you're treating me."

Kanda pivots violently on his heel to look directly at Allen. The suddenness of his action forces Allen into taking an involuntary step back.

"Oh yeah?"

"Well, yes." Allen's insistence falters at the sight of Kanda's smoldering eyes. The shove to his shoulder surprises him even more so.

"So do something about it," he taunts dangerously, his voice startling in its forceful clarity.

Allen stands completely still, even his breath leaving him in the barest movement of his chest. Kanda's patience wavers until it's too late - his fist connects with Allen's cheek and sends him reeling. He lands in gravel, hand held to his cheek. Immediately afterward, a boot makes contact with the center of his back and the force elicits a great, pained sound Kanda seems to revel in.

"Do something about it, you fucking pussy. Hit me. Get the fuck up and hit me."

In his pain, all Allen can focus on is the way Kanda forces his breath through his nose in great heaves. It reminds him of a bull, of a dragon, but somehow he can't find it in him to be genuinely intimidated, but actually absorbed in observing this latest breakdown in character. Still, the danger of Kanda standing above him with incredible leverage, hands balled into fists at his sides and shoulders squared, still works to gall him into action, albeit tempered in its application.

Allen lifts himself off the ground slowly, spitting a bit of blood that's begun to collect under his tongue after having bitten it. Kanda wants a fight - desperately, if the horrible twist of his face is anything to go by - and so Allen will give it, even if against his better judgment.

At full height, shoulders posed to mirror Kanda's show of strength, Allen stands four inches shorter and with a disadvantage in weight; Kanda's hundred and thirty-nine pounds to his own hundred and twenty-three will not lie in his favor if he aims to win this fight by force alone. He screws his resolve and pulls together a fighting stance a yard away from his opponent. Kanda comes after him with a fist level at his collarbone.

Allen takes it but buffers the blow by moving along with the force of it, dipping the shoulder to his left and maneuvering himself to stand behind him. Blind rage will do Kanda no good if Allen is prepared to utilize his smaller body, but there is still fear in accepting the force behind his punches. From dozens of past experiences, he knows very well how hard they hurt and how gruesome of a bruise they can paint on his skin.

The rest of their fight devolves into similar abetting and brute force until Allen makes a wrong move. He aims to give Kanda a debilitating kick to the crotch, but in Kanda's desperation, he shoots out an arm and catches Allen's ankle, sending him on his back when he pulls at it. Allen's head _cracks_ against the gravel and the shock forces a pained shout out of him. Kanda cocks a menacing smile as Allen stares up, dazed, at the powder blue sky.

"Stupid little moron," Kanda remarks. He's a tall, dark figure protruding into Allen's roiling vision. He lowers himself to kneel at his side and balls a fist into the front of Allen's unbuttoned jacket. He closes his eyes against his looming face.

"'Moron'? You told me to fight back," Allen has to take a breath; the air has good and truly been knocked out of him, "and that's exactly what I did."

The cocky smirk on Kanda's lips twists something deep at Allen's core. It warms the longer they look at each other, smoldering cobalt against mirror-like gray, until it bubbles up and morphs into something insidious. Allen spits directly into Kanda's face.

"Augh!" Allen is jostled by the hold Kanda still has on the front of his jacket while the other hand wipes away the blood-tinged spit from under his eye. "Punkass bitch, I'm really going to give it to you now."

 _No you aren't_ , is Allen's instant thought before he grips the hand attached to him for leverage and lunges forward to snap at Kanda's face. The spit still has him reeling, but he's fast enough to flinch backward. Allen is only a hairsbreadth short of his jaw, his teeth snapping closed with a _clack_. Kanda looks back at him like he's crazy, and it galls him. He feigns defeat.

"That's it. That's the last trick I had up my sleeve. What are you going to do now?" Now Allen's eyes mirror Kanda's in intensity. He looks back, horrified, angry, out for inflicting pain. For a second, a flash gone after Allen only blinks, Kanda looks like a beast. It's his reasoning, his softening humanity, that allows him to let Kanda do what he does next. Lips on his, rough and unforgiving, Allen's anger regresses and dissipates into somber thought.

How much, then, does your humanity suffer? Without something so pure in it to dispel every pain, every ounce of sadness that can plague the mind? Kanda's heart, Allen thinks, must be a complete, inky black, and constricted by bonds of - of what? of fear, low and consuming, or of hatred as explosive as his words, his outbursts of anger?

His hands on him inspire the same kind of fear he's afraid poison Kanda's heart. Every kiss afterward, he believes, cures it as they are taken from him in a hurry. They become a dead man's salvation. _I'll give it,_ he thinks, _I'll give it if it means his heart is saved. God, bitter as I am, save him_.

It soon proves to be it is his tongue that gives him a taste of what it is that grips Kanda's heart too tightly to beat freely for the rest of them. It's loneliness, thick and viscous as it coats Allen's mouth. Allen chokes on it in the middle of mass the next day back at headquarters. His hymn shatters half way through its delivery and he falls forward. Lenalee's voice falls out of the chorus, and she crumbles with him as she tries to catch him.

* * *

Haha, this was actually a lot of fun to write. Also, I changed my mind - I'm not quick enough to actually come up with something new to write and post everyday, so this will be updated _weekly_ with oneshots. Together with college and my Allen roleplay blog, I don't think I have the brainpower to start on something new everyday.

Anyway, thank you so much for reading! If you have something to say, I would love it if you sent me a comment :)


	3. Game

Allen, a child of simplicity, has a very small world of simple pleasures; food and sleep and hot showers. Below this surface of placidity, there is a depth to this boy that transcends and questions even his own knowledge. This idiosyncrasy is best acknowledged when in three states: drowsy near-consciousness, the emptiness of his head in the wake of a concussion, and when the small pinpricks of hunger become too painful to ignore.

In the time between his acceptance into the Order and his excommunication, hunger's eager grip was not felt as often as exhaustion's drowsiness, but had the unique quality of anger to accompany it, which made it significantly more difficult to deal with. On most occasions, this small flame beneath his heart was dealt with in private, away from prying eyes half eager to see the Destroyer of Time's own unraveling, half terrified of being caught in its wake. When there was no luxury of privacy, however, anger sprang forth in the messiest ways when finally provoked.

This amounted to little more than set jaws, withering glares, and terse, tight-lipped replies, but with Kanda around, there always came an opportunity for a brawl.

Today, luckily, Allen has been given the chance of truly filling himself. Seconds, thirds, and a fourth serving has restored him again to his most gentlemanly form: Allen Walker, sixteen, ex-exorcist, runaway, pinnacle of boyish resilience and determination.

Johnny spies Allen's peaking gray eyes on his plate after everyone has set knives and forks down and pushed away from the table. He can't help but offer his scraps.

"Would you like the rest of my plate, Allen?"

The pinking of his cheeks is as immediate as it is satisfying, in a near perverse way. Johnny thinks almost nothing of it, save for the fact that it means Allen is as embarrassed as he thinks he is, but to Allen, it's mortifying.

"Yes… I would like that, thank you." Allen has held onto politeness as a virtue, despite it all.

Kanda comes up to their table a moment later, an unpleasant twist to his mouth not out of place, but surprising to see during such an uneventful afternoon. He's either going to spit out an insult or bark out another command, self appointed leader as he is in their endeavor. He notes Allen working on Johnny's leftovers, and there he finds his chance to say something cruel.

"Eating again, piglet?"

Between a mouthful of food and a muffled breath comes Allen's jibe, "You're just angry because you lost at billiards."

The contented state of Allen's belly spares Kanda none of its kindness, but anger lurches in his throat when he's pulled out of his seat by the collar of his shirt to look directly into the fire of Kanda's dark eyes.

"Listen, kid -"

"Make a scene. I dare you," Allen says lowly. The blushing boy from before is gone. In his place lives and breathes a creature colored in mute rage by injustices and no conceivable escape from the sins committed by his fathers.

Kanda looks confused, as if to say, the quirk of his brows and reflection in his eyes to ask, "I thought we were friends?"

Allen looks back without shrinking to reply, neither with bitterness nor ill intent, "I have no friends."

The quiet fire of Allen's gray eyes eventually serves to sever whatever tie there is between the two of them, enough to compel Kanda to let go of his shirt. Allen's heels touch the ground and he straightens out his clothing, unperturbed. Kanda's habit of coming away from games a sore loser will do nothing to his mood today, not with his belly finally full and a side of a clean bed to sleep in tonight.

Tempers settled and Johnny increasingly frazzled, they opt to leave the tavern, Kanda in tow. He spies at Allen's profile as he and Johnny chat amiably, once, twice, but stops himself the third time. Alma's brief reappearance in his life has loosened his heart to be something significantly more malleable, which has done no good to what admiration he held to Allen's abilities as an exorcist or his resilience as a young boy. His obvious growth into a young adult and the dawning potential of what kind of man he will become has done nothing to help matters.

As night falls, inhibitions lower. Kanda's agitation begins to burn low in his belly, and his legs grow restless. Allen finds himself increasingly aware of the looks Kanda has been sending his way, different from the ones he noticed earlier in the way they smolder and his eyes catch the light, how they look directly into his face. He knows that burn, even if he acknowledges it has not been as unkind to him as it has to Kanda in his years of silent, isolated hatred. This, however, is not the heat, the flicker of disdain, but of clear, ardent intent. What Kanda wants from him is not difficult to decipher, but Allen chooses to sit back, watch him from a mask of indifference, and await the first move. In such a confined space and the unfortunate opportunity privacy affords them, it does not take long.

Kanda's eyes are on him instantly. When the bathroom door clicks closed, Allen's heart pounds a hot, steady print of adrenaline into his chest.

"What do you want?" His voice rings out surprisingly clear.

"I want you to come the fuck clean." The force in which Kanda's explicative is spit out sends heat high into Allen's face. He doesn't turn away from the mirror to meet the glare that is undoubtedly turned in his direction.

"I suppose you'll have to beat it out of me, then, because even your best manners couldn't pry it out of me."

Kanda's hand is firm, a searing weight of heat and malicious intent on his shoulder. It's force spins him around, finally, to face him, and his other hand lands a fist on his right cheek. They delve into violence of the purist brutality.

A boy's freedom in 19th century London is nearly boundless. He can find himself in innumerable strange situations, but ones of this weight, Allen thinks, can be some of the most rewarding.

Biceps coil, the padding of muscle in his gut tenses in anticipation of every blow Kanda sends his way. Allen adheres to no sense of shame as he uses his dirtiest tricks, releases the loudest, most undignified shrieks in their fervor, and undoubtedly leaves behind a fair share of bites on Kanda's shoulders and wrists. Kanda, in turn, smothers him, chest to chest and his arms wrapped tightly around Allen's head. Allen releases a shriek, wild and telling of the beat of which his heart makes its sprint, in a mark of defeat until a fist into Kanda's kidneys releases him.

It's a game. As rotten and selfish as a boy's mind and his habits can be, it's a game with feelings aside and no definite fittings of a winner. Kanda would already be regarded as the losing party, however, when the force behind the hand that strikes Allen's scarred cheek is weighted by concern the foreboding warmth of some strain of love tight around his sore heart.


End file.
